Lost In The Wood
by bunyipbabe
Summary: Merle's so far in the closet he's teetering on Narnia. But none of that matters. Because there are bigger weights on Merle's mind: namely the zombie apocalypse, avenging his favorite hand, and (most importantly) finding his lost baby brother. What happens in Woodbury stays in Woodbury though. Right...? Merle/T-Dog, rarepair fic (not crack).


**Merle's so far in the closet he's teetering on Narnia. But none of that matters. Because there are bigger weights on Merle's mind: namely the zombie apocalypse, avenging his favorite hand, and (most importantly) finding his lost baby brother.**

 **What happens in Woodbury stays in Woodbury though. Right...?**

* * *

 **Nobody seems to share my love of the meanest, toughest, nastiest badasses secretly being supergay and loving to take cock. Or of T-Dog/Merle, my favourite crackship-that-became-an-actual-ship. I'm rectifying that.**

* * *

Daryl's the only one who knows.

Daryl's the only _living_ one who knows, Merle oughta say. He bets dad had his suspicions – it would explain why he started whaling on him so early, from before ma died. Little faggot even at that age. Hence why Merle'd started beating up the other boys, because if he weren't allowed to _like_ them he'd settle to _fight_ 'em instead. And well, being around his father had given ample opportunity for honing his skills in that field. Merle's grateful he popped the ol' fucker off before the dead started crawling again, fun as it woulda been to have killed him twice…

Well. That's a lie.

Merle didn't _kill_ his father. Not technically. But when he found him overdosed, he sure as heck didn't call for an ambulance.

At the time, Merle had thought it was only himself he was avenging. He curled his lip in disgust at the man twitching in a puddle of his own drug-stinking piss and stalked through to the living room, where two grungy old mattresses lay side by side. The occupant of the second peered out blearily from his cocoon and asked "Merle? Tha' you? Wazzup?" in a voice crackling with sleep-grit, and waited for Merle's hoarse "Nothin', bro," before bundling the unwashed sheets to his chin and unquestioningly shutting his eyes.

Merle suggested they party it up the next night, after they'd trudged into the kitchen and found dad cold and purpled on the tiles. However Daryl, being a wet little shit, opted to spend the night glumly poking at ma's grave, where it sat out back of their ramshackle house beneath the stooping boughs of an ancient Buckeye tree.

(That was where Merle had nailed his first squirrel. Eight years later, Daryl had copied him, and two years after that, while Merle was in juvie, the boy had dumped the sheet-wrapped ashy residue that'd once been their ma to the bottom of a six-foot hole and heaped enough dirt over it that the coyotes wouldn't dig her out again. It was, in Merle's opinion, more than she deserved.)

Merle figured that since their old man never smacked Daryl around the muppet might actually miss him. He hadn't been complaining though; no Daryl meant he could go where he liked. And where he liked was Atlanta City, where the booze was cheap, the cocaine cheaper, and the fags plentiful. So, without further ado, he'd given Daryl a farewell noogie and the council man heaving da's bloated corpse a wave, flipped the bird at the gathered army of gawkers, and hopped on his bike. He gunned along the long, dusty roads until he was far enough from their cruddy backwater town that the sight of his face didn't make people spit.

To be honest, he didn't blame them. Merle'd run away at eighteen and returned boasting only a dishonourable discharge and bulked-out penitentiary record to his name. Folks had been wary of him before. But nowadays he was the same square-jawed, stubble chinned, mean-eyed motherfucker he'd always been with more muscle and attitude on the side, and that wariness turned to silence when he passed and whispers behind his back.

 _That's my brother_ , he remembers hearing Daryl boast once, before Merle'd deemed him big enough to face their father alone and Daryl still knew what a goddam smile was. _Feed him a hammer, he'll crap out nails._

That reputation was probably all that'd kept Daryl from getting the shit kicked out of him at school. Merle didn't care about the odd beating – built character, that. Their kind got forged by spite: call 'em 'redneck trash' enough and they became it, punch 'em and they got up and hit you harder. But he reckons it'd be a helluva lot worse if all those assholes who side-eyed Daryl on the playground, with his dirty, hole-filled uniform and lice-shaved hair, knew his big brother loved nothing more than riding dick. So while Merle had built his image around giving zero shits for what anyone thought, there were certain… _things_ that couldn't be said out loud. For both their sakes.

He'd had a good thing going on though, before dad died. Forty years of being the toughest fag in Georgia meant you got used to keeping secrets. Merle'd perfected the secret drug-snort, along with the sidle into an alley where an underground club was demarcated by a pink neon light. Admittedly, it'd taken a while to perfect the first to the degree of second – and while there were ample opportunities for getting fucked behind bars, everyone in prison had this dumb-ass idea that if you preferred catching to pitching that made you some sorta dame.

Fuck that. Merle was as dude as they came. (And he had come, intensely and loudly, more than enough to prove it.)

But that was why it was important that only Daryl knew, because only Daryl seemed to _get it:_ Daryl, who as far as Merle knew had never looked at nobody, male nor female. Musta been something sour in daddy's seed, for the both of them to turn out freaks.

But Daryl, for all his defects, was the best lil' brother a guy like him could ask for. Because once upon a time, he'd walked in on Merle getting fucked by a club-buddy who'd happened to be passing through town. And he shrugged, mumbled an apology, and ambled back out again.

* * *

Merle's eyes crack.

It's almost literal, like the splitting of mud in the desert.

He can hear his heartbeat. Too loud. Too sluggish. Either he's spinning or the world is; one of them's more logical than the other, but he can't for the life of him work out which it is.

Above him, the sun wobbles in jellified heat-haze. It twists nauseatingly, a glaring ribbon of gold, and when he throws up a hand to shield himself the light glides right through it as if it doesn't exist. His skin's crawling off him in sunburnt shreds, antsy drug-lust battering about his skull. He's so hot, so frazzled and fried, and he needs another hit, and he don't know where his hand's gone, and he can't _think…_

When the shadow of the walker falls over him, it's easier to collapse into fever-sleep than fight the inevitable. Which is why Merle's too busy dreaming, too busy _remembering_ , to see the walker's shambling passage halt and its head turn, before a bullet explodes from behind its ear and it goes flailing to the sun-baked earth.

* * *

His lil bro ain't never been the talkative type. Merle spouts enough shit for both of 'em, he figures. Sometimes it irritates him how Daryl'll just sit tight and _watch_ with those beady black eyes of his, like one of them birds ma used to feed crumbs to when they came to the kitchen windowsill: ready to flap at the too-fast raise of a hand. But he's sure as hell grateful for his silence the next day. After he's booted the guy out – was kind enough to throw him his pants on the way – and given him the usual run-down ("Don'tchu say nothin', or I'll hunt ya down and chop off that pretty cock of yours; you hear me?") he decides hiding in their makeshift bedroom's for pussies and storms out to face Daryl's judgment.

Daryl is pouring cereal into a chipped pewter bowl, chewing a dry handful with open mouth. Their dad's outta town. Merle's just back from his first stint in prison and is pushing twenty-one, while Daryl is eight years his junior.

Kid's rapidly approaching the age where he'll drop outta high school, like Merle did and their father and his father before. From what Merle's been able to piece together since he got out the slammer and chose moving in with dad over sleep rough, Daryl boredly picks his nose through half his classes and bunks off the rest. Good kid. Evidently, playing hookie's taught him right. Rather than spewing all that Biblical bollocks shouted by the pastor at the church ma'd dragged him to every Sunday morning (in the days before their dad went from the occasional beer to week-long, punch-strewn benders) Daryl just yawns, scoots the bowl to Merle's place, and digs out another handful for himself.

Merle rolls his eyes, but accepts the peace offering. "Thas gross. Use a bowl or summin', wouldya?"

"Thas the last one." Daryl crunches through his mouthful, half-mushed cornflakes stuck to his lips. "Others'r'll dirty."

Merle's been expecting confrontation, been preparing for it even – but hey, this is just as fun. Smirking, he straddles his chair and plucks a rubbery flake. They're stale, and he can smell from over here that the milk's off. "Well, why don'tcha wash up then, numbnuts?"

Daryl eyes him warily, seemingly not needing to breathe between shovelling more in. "Cause I'm goin' to school."

Merle tuts. "You're the only one in this house not earnin' his keep, Darylina."

"Can't work and do school, can I."

That earns him a flake flicked at his face. It catches in his ratty brown hair – shoulder length, Merle's gonna have to lop it off soon. Can't have his baby brother going round looking like a sissy. "Naw, butcha can do the washing up. So git, dumbass. Before I make ya." He makes a sudden lunge, not actually leaving his seat but making to – the crash of knees and palms on table make Daryl jump like a spooked cat, shoulders hitching past his ears, and spill cornflakes all over the floor. When he scampers to the sink, his shoes crunch through them like he's jogging on gravel. Merle laughs. "Sweep them up too, yeah? School don't start properly before nine; they won't give no shits if ya miss registration. Heck, probably won't notice. Or care."

Usually, this far into a conversation is when he starts talking to himself, because his surly lil prick of a brother's used up his word quota for the day. Which is why Merle's surprised when Daryl's head pops above the table line – boy's crawling about with the dustpan and brush as he's been told, which is the only reason Merle ain't giving into temptation and flicking more flakes to make his job harder.

"Can ya take me to the woods after you're done work then?" he asks, and relief punches Merle like a hard right hook.

Nothing's changed. His little brother knows who he is, _what_ he is, and _nothing's changed._

Merle grins, a miser-thin whisker of benevolence germinating, and nods. "Sure, lil bro. Whoever catches the fattest squirrel doesn't have to muck out the fridge."

Of course, when Merle loses, he bitches so much that Daryl winds up helping anyway, if only to shut him up.

It's early evening. They're gagging together, struggling to keep their cornflakes where they belong. Merle's entered the midden headfirst because he's a fuckin' badass and he ain't afraid of no mould-monster; Daryl, more wary, has opted to hold the bucket with one hand and pinch his nose with the other. When he asks the question – the one Merle's been waiting for – it emerges in a nasally mosquito-whine.

"So you like boys then?"

Merle bangs his head. Something best left identified dribbles down his face from the shelf above. "Issat your business, Darylina?" he jibes, trying to pretend his jaw ain't itching with the urge to clench. This morning went better than he could've ever hoped. If Daryl ruins it now… Fuck, Merle'll forcefeed him the sponge.

"Naw." They work in silence a moment longer, Merle scrubbing furiously at an old mildew wad ingrained into the plastic fridge walls. Daryl dunks the dirty sponge with obedient diligence when it's passed back to soak. Merle's the one to break the quiet, like he always is.

"Why you askin'? Gotta problem?" It comes out, if such a thing is possible, more hostile than intended. He hears Daryl's knuckles creak around the wire bucket handle.

"Naw," his little brother whispers again. Jiggles his knees – Merle hears them bang against the old copper, hears the water inside shift and slop – and fidgets back and forth as if he's absorbing Merle's discomfort with this whole conversation via astral projection.

"Good. Cause I wouldn't give a shit otherwise." Except, for Daryl, he just might. Huffing, Merle extracts himself from the bowels of their stinking refrigerator and rolls to his feet, stiff muscles protesting. "Awright," he says, jabbing Daryl in his reedy chest. "I'm too big to get the back bits, so yer gonna have to crawl in there. If yer lucky, I won't shut the door and forget about ya."

Daryl actually looks a little scared at that. He flinches away from the fridge's greasy depths, but when Merle gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, takes a deep breath (the last clean one he'll have in a while) and descends to the squelching deep. Without the feeling of those eyes on his neck, Merle's able to pay adequate attention to each potential phrase he could say next, and cross them off one by one.

 _Thank you for not caring._

 _Don't tell nobody._

 _Don't tell nobody, but especially don't tell dad._

Daryl ain't stupid. He's got Merle's back like Merle's got his, and they'll watch out for each other until they're both in the ground. Merle knows, _believes_ , that he can trust him with this.

"Awright, bro," he settles on, tapping his socked toe on Daryl's. "I'm feelin' generous. I got me a payout today, so if you n'me get done here before dad gets home –" _From the bar, where he's drinking every penny he's made,_ " – What's say we go sort grub for the next week?"

As any growing kid, Daryl perks at the promise of food. He puts his back into it, working the sponge with dizzying determination. "Awright!"

He doesn't say 'thanks' either. Like Merle, he doesn't need to.

* * *

So, when he cracks open his eyes to the ugly yellow sunlight of a Woodbury morning, a pillow beneath his head and stump-wrist cleansed, numbed and bound in soft white bandages, feeling more refreshed than after a fresh hit of meth, the first thing he thinks is that he's dead, and that those asshole Baptists can fuck themselves because fags go to heaven after all. Figuring he'll see Daryl soon enough, he doesn't bother pushing to sit. Just shuts his eyes. Takes a moment. And basks.

Although if this's heaven, couldn't God've given him back his hand? Merle ain't gotten fucked since this whole zombie-debacle started. While he'll jerk it or sit on his fingers quite happily on his lonesome, it's preferable to do both at once. What's heaven without masturbation?

The door opens. In walks some guy – further confirming Merle's doubts about the holiness of this place, because surely Heaven's room service would be a bunch of tanned and muscular speedo-sporting lifeguards. Not... _this_.

A tall man. Lanky-ish, with a rounded face soft as that damn Chinaman's (Merle'll break it when he next sees him, swell those slit-eyes shut with the weight of his fists). In contrast, this man's eyes are a thousand times more...

Well, Merle ain't never been a poet. He knows 'Dead' wouldn't be right though, not when he staggered out of Atlanta with a groaning horde of walking corpses on his heels. But there's something about them, something cold and unfeeling and automaton…

Something which Merle doesn't get a moment more to contemplate, because the little lapdog-man bouncing on the tall one's heels ceases his yammering long enough to point and gasp. Merle doesn't feel up to talking. He musters energy to wave.

Bespectacled Shortass sputters, too surprised by Merle's consciousness to form coherent sentences – which don't exactly reassure him as to what they've been doing while he was out. It falls upon his companion to break the ice. That's a good thing; it's been thickening without interruption as Merle pushes himself to sit, eyes flicking for a possible escape.

"You're awake!" the man says, sounding surprised and a little pleased. Genuine too. Apocalypse musta made Merle paranoid though, because despite the fact that everything about this man exudes nicety, all Merle's brain's reading is _danger_. "We honestly weren't sure if you'd make it. How're you feeling?"

"Like I cut my hand off," Merle croaks. His throat's so dry he doesn't get halfway before starting to hack and cough. Next moment Beanpole's there, elbowing Bespectacled Shortass away with undue gentleness. He grabs a glass off the table – they have clean water? – and tips it to Merle's parched lips. Then away again, when Merle's thirsty chugging turns to inhalation.

Wouldn't that be the kicker; surviving the rooftop and the run, only to choke to death on water?

Beanpole's there though, cheerfully pounding between Merle's shoulderblades – no time to freak about his shirt being off, scars bared for the world to see – until he spits up on his lap. Vomit follows. Water and phlegm and druggie-puke and whatever else gross shit he's had in his mouth since the last time he saw a toothbrush. De- _light_ -ful.

"You've been going through withdrawal," Beanpole explains, once Merle's settled with fresh sheets and is holding his cup on his lonesome, sipping measured and slow. "On top of heatstroke and fever from the infection." His smile quirks at one edge, although his eyes don't collaborate. "You're quite the tough one, aren't you?"

Merle glances at the IVs punching his wrists and elbows. _Don't feel it at the moment_. "Thas right," he says. "How soon before I'm movin'?"

"The doctors said one week of bedrest minimum, then take it slowly for the next fortnight. We'll help you every step of the way –"

"I'll be up tomorrow."

Bespectacled Shortass takes that as his cue, coughing into his pudgy fist and adjusting his glasses over his turned up pug-nose. "Um, no you won't. For your own health, Mr…"

"Dixon, call me Merle. And I betcha now, this time tomorrow I'll be pissin' out that window."

Beanpole's mouth does that funny twitch again. "I'd really rather you didn't. The hospital looks onto the schoolyard. Now, before we let you rest Mr Dixon –"

"Merle."

"Merle, let me make a brief introduction. Our town is called Woodbury. It's a haven of sorts, from the nightmare we pulled you ought of. No one's infected, and we all pitch in and do our bit to survive – an effort you are more than welcome to join." He cuts Merle off before he can scoff. "Please though, don't think about that yet. You're welcome to leave if you want to. But I'd rather you stay until you're on your feet, fed, and weaponized." He notices Merle's gaze sliding to the shorter man, who's fiddling with whatever juice he's hooked up to in the background. Beanpole gives a broad plastic smile. "This here is my assistant, Milton. He's come to fit you for a prosthetic, although that can wait until you've slept."

Now he thinks about it, he is dozy. Being in a fevered unconscious haze apparently doesn't get you much in the way of REM. Merle fights a yawn. "And you?"

Beanpole's shoulders relax, opening his posture to something friendly and warm that makes those heebie-jeebies crawling along Merle's spine accelerate to full-out gallop. "I'm the leader of this place," he says, holding out his left hand to shake. "You can call me 'the Governor'."

* * *

 **T-Dog will be along in a couple of chapters.**

 **Please comment! Think of it as payment for awesome fic.**


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